Hey, You Wanna
Ride?
by Don Drewniak
We journey
back to 1960 and visit the old mill city of Fall
River, Massachusetts. Once blessed with
approximately 120 cotton mills, all were either
empty or, in a few cases, small sections of them
were being used for grocery stores or discount
outlets.
I was about to
enter my senior year at B.M.C. Durfee High School,
as were two friends dating back to grammar school
days.
Mitch was at
the wheel of his ’51 Buick on a late August
evening. Lenny was sitting on the passenger side
of the front seat, while I was in back. We were
cruising westbound on Bedford Street engaged in
the usual futile pursuit of girls.
“There’s
two who look pretty good,” announced Mitch.
“Pull
over,” said Lenny.
We passed the
latest objects of our desires while they were
walking in the same direction as we were riding.
Mitch spotted a curbside parking space within a
half block and slid his beloved car into it. In
our haste to make contact, we neglected to notice
what building was no more than one hundred feet
ahead of us.
As the girls
came abreast (no pun in attended) of our car,
Lenny, in a voice that was a cross between Edward
G. Robinson and Count Dracula, said, “Hey,
you wanna ride?”
The girls
shrieked at the top of their lungs and bolted
toward Fall River Police Headquarters. It was
only then that we became aware of where we were.
Gówno,
gówno, gówno! (Shit, shit, shit!)
Mitch threw
the car in gear and left a strip of rubber. He
took his second or third right and started
zigzagging up-and-down side streets. All the
while he kept screaming, “Any cops? Any cops?”
I yelled back,
“Just get us the hell out of here.”
“Where?”
I blurted out
the first thing that came into my near vacuum of
a brain, “Get out of Fall River. Head for
Somerset. And don’t speed.”
As Mitch drove,
Lenny and I constantly checked for the cops. I
imagined swarms of police cars coming at us from
all directions, pinning us in and then storming
the car with guns blazing.
As we crossed
the Brightman Street Bridge, Lenny said, “Find
a parking lot.”
Mitch
continued straight on Route 6 before turning into
a restaurant parking lot. We were engulfed in
smoke and fumes as soon as the car came to a stop.
Tear gas!
We jumped out
of the car. The smoke and fumes began to recede
as Mitch opened the hood. “It’s not
from the engine.”
I poked my
head under the car. “Check your emergency
brake.”
“Damn!”
Back in the 60s,
it was common practice to pull up the emergency
brake no matter how flat the parking area may
have been. Mitch had neglected to disengage it
back at the scene of the crime.
I glared at
Lenny, “Why the hell did you use that voice?”
“I was
trying to sound sophisticated.”
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